


It's Not Unusual

by srididdledeedee



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, M/M, lying lies and the act of not telling the truth, post-TF2 game/post comics (up through 6) AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-07-01 16:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15777783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srididdledeedee/pseuds/srididdledeedee
Summary: It wasn't that Spy wanted to lie, it was just that one thing led to another and suddenly he was Jean Gusteau, a man who shared only three things with him: his face, his mannerisms, and his son.Spy has a secret, Sniper does his best to love him, and Scout goes back to Boston.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this in the works for around a year and a half now - I started it in mid-February of 2017, around the time I got into TF2. @east_wind sucked me in, and they very generously and kindly beta-ed this fic. I could never have done it without their support.
> 
> I'm not sure how regular the update schedule will be - both @east_wind and I are starting new chapters of our lives, and that takes precedent over this. However, the story is complete. It's simply a matter of editing and uploading it here. But don't let that discourage you from commenting! It's incredibly rewarding as an author to have others tell you what they enjoyed from your writing, even if it's just the smallest things.
> 
> Another special thanks to @east_wind, and I hope you all enjoy.

Spy had been many people in his life. Alphonse, Michel, Mathieu – he had taken every name, every personality in his line of work. There had even been days when he walked around as himself. But those days were twenty-seven years in the past.

When he first arrived in Teufort he and the other mercs were told to forget their previous lives. They’d be fighting for an unknown amount of time. It could just be a few months, they said. Or it could be an infinite number of years.

_Six years, five months, eight days._

Hardly infinite. Spy lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the clear New Mexican air. He’d thought he’d seen the last of the hellscape when the brothers died, but everyone was dragged back soon enough. Now, though...it was over. It was really over.

Spy wouldn’t miss New Mexico. It was too arid, too empty. Blood had soaked into the sand. No, the land was a terrible reminder of the years the mercenaries had wasted on gravel. But the mercs themselves – Spy would have a harder time without them. Fighting with and against one group of people every day, Monday to Friday, 52 weeks a year for six years straight did something to your psyche.

“I’m going back to Boston,” Scout bragged loudly. They were all eating a final meal together, not RED vs BLU, but as a whole unit before they left for good. “My Ma says she misses me, and that I need to get a real job. So I’m thinking I’ll go back to college and...yeah.”

“Very well put together plan, Scout,” Medic commented, a wide but insincere smile on his face. “If only the rest of us were as organized as you.”

“C’mon, be nice,” Demoman scolded. “We aren’t enemies anymore.”

“Demo–”

“And I told you to call me Tavish!” he interrupted Medic. “Just because you’re still stuck on the old ways don’t mean the rest of us have to be.”

Medic sighed and didn’t continue his original thought. “Back to Germany for me. I can’t say where, but better than here.”

“That could be anywhere, mate,” Sniper commented.

“Exactly.”

“Well, I know exactly what I’ll be doing!” Soldier said. “Buying a house somewhere in Washington – most patriotic state, you know – having a few kids, growing old together with Zhanna.”

“Kids?” Heavy looked simultaneously excited and nervous.

Sniper took the small chaos as an opportunity to sit down next to Spy. “Jean?” he said quietly.

It still took Spy a second longer to respond than it should have. _That’s not my name,_ he wanted to say. Instead, simply turned his head to acknowledge that he had heard.

“What you think you’ll be doing?” Sniper asked. “After all this. Everyone seems to have at least some idea of where they’re going. So what about you?”

“I could ask you the same thing, _Mundy,_ ” Spy responded. “It’s not like you can go back to Australia.”

Sniper shrugged. “I’ll repeat: what’ll you be doing?”

“I can’t tell you,” Spy lied. He had no idea what he was going to do. “Life of a spy, always in secrecy.”

Sniper’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re gonna keep spying?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know, I thought the last five, six years of killing and dying and respawning might have put a damper on it,” Sniper said, somewhat bitterly. “I won’t be sniping anymore, I think. I’ve had enough.”

Spy was truly surprised. “But you love being an assassin!”

“Yeah, and I love prawns too, but if I had them every meal for six years straight I wouldn’t be able to stomach it by the end,” he said.

“That’s….valid.”

The pair sat in silence, watching as other members of the team laughed and talked about their futures.

“What if we go somewhere, together?” Sniper asked suddenly. “A city, or at least not a small town. You always wanted to be a chef, right?”

Jean Gusteau always wanted to be a chef. Spy just enjoyed cooking as a hobby. However, he was caught off guard by one word in Sniper’s sentence. “‘We?’”

“I mean –” Sniper scrambled for an explanation, but came up short. “Yeah, you got me. I can’t cut off ties from everyone that easy, mate.”

A silence fell over them once again, much more uncomfortable than the first. Sniper kicked dust up from the ground. Spy fiddled with his gloves, his mind racing and his heart pounding. He didn’t have a real plan for life after Teufort. He also didn’t want to cut himself off from everyone immediately. And he and Sniper _were_ close, both from the hours spent in Sniper's hidey-hole when they were on opposing teams and their more recent collaborative efforts. The suggestion was a godsend, in fact.

“I would not be...entirely opposed to traveling together,” Spy said carefully. Sniper turned quickly, a smile obvious on his face.

“You mean it?”

“Yes, of course. Now the real question is, where will we go?” Spy mused. “There’s L.A., Chicago...I do like the Eastern Seaboard, perhaps New York City?”

“Like hell we’re going to New York,” Sniper snorted.

“Then, maybe Boston?” Spy suggested as casually as he could. “I know the area, and it isn’t crime-ridden.”

“And your kid’s going there,” Sniper said frankly. Spy opened his mouth to protest, but Sniper waved his hand. “No, it’s okay. You were being as subtle as possible.” He grinned. “We’ll go to Boston.”

“Really?” Spy glanced at Scout to make sure he hadn’t heard, but the boy was twenty feet away, caught up in an argument with the Engineer about what to call soda.

“Really.” Sniper let out a breathless laugh. “We’re doing it. We’re following your son to Boston!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little over a week, not too bad. Thank you for the kudos and the positive feedback - don't hesitate to leave comments, no matter how short! All of them make me feel amazing
> 
> A huge thank you to my wonderful beta, @east_wind and all y'all should check out their works as well!

“Boston. Boston!” Scout said excitedly to himself. He was driving back up north alone, and he was more than eager to see his mother again. “Boston!”

_Have I changed too much?_ He wondered, worried. “Boston,” he repeated. It sounded almost foreign to him now – more of a Midwestern “O,” the nasal quality toned down, and it seemed so much softer than it had been before. He hadn't lost his accent, but it had changed from being around people who criticized his pronunciation.

_“‘I'm riding in the car,’ not this, this ‘Ahm ridin’ in the cah’ business,” Spy said, grossly exaggerating the accent. “Didn't your mother teach you how to speak?”_

Scout gripped the steering wheel more firmly. “ _Baw_ -ston,” he stressed. “ _Ahm_ from _Baw_ -ston. Hi, _Mah_ , how aw ya? _Fuck_ the Yankees.”

_Everything’s fine. It's all cool,_ Scout thought to himself. _It's fine._

* * *

They were just crossing into Texas when Sniper got the feeling that neither Scout nor Spy knew how to get to Boston.

“We just follow the boy, he'll take us there,” Spy kept saying.

“Alright, but if we lose him in the two thousand miles between here and there, we need a backup plan,” Sniper said. “Do you at least know the roads to take us to the coast?”

“We just won't lose Scout,” Spy insisted. “It can't be that difficult; he stole a bright yellow Mustang!”

Sniper sighed. Spy was being incredibly unreasonable about the whole thing. “If and when he stops at a rest area, you're going in to get a map.”

_“You_ should do it if you want a map,” Spy sulked.

“He'll see me. We're lucky that Scout hasn’t paid attention to a single thing in his life and hasn't recognized my van,” Sniper said. He was steadily speeding up. He still didn't quite grasp the American system, and he was pretty sure he was supposed to drive at least thirty kilometers over the speed limit on the highway. It wasn't like there were any police around, anyway.

“Fine,” Spy said, turning away from Sniper. “Why don't you have a map, if you have a van to drive around in?”

“I do!” He responded. “But it's all of New Mexico, or Arizona, or California. None of those interstate ones.”

“I see.”

There was a beat, and Sniper turned on the radio. One of the Eagles’ new songs was playing. “Seems like advice you could take,” he commented.

“What?”

“‘Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy?’ Get out of your head,” Sniper said.

“Oh.” Spy shrugged. “I suppose.” He turned to face the window.

Sniper chewed on his lip. It wasn't unusual for Spy to avoid conversation, but something seemed off about him. But he didn't want to pressure his friend, especially with the rest of the drive ahead of them.

He took to singing under his breath. He loved all kinds of music, so the local southern rock stations were fine by him. The Carpenters, America, Don McLean, they was all the same. Different chords, maybe. But the same things at heart.

“You have a beautiful voice,” Spy said suddenly. It had been a little over an hour since they last spoke, and it startled Sniper. He had thought the other was asleep. He blushed.

“Ah, thanks, mate.” He glanced over briefly to see Spy still staring out the passenger window. “You alright?”

“As ‘alright’ as a man following his unsuspecting son across the continental United States can be,” Spy remarked, the bitterness evident in his voice.

“Yeah, that's fair,” Sniper said. He didn't want another hour of silence and quickly changed topics. “You know, I was thinking. Since we're not mercs anymore, we can't very well be calling each other ‘Spy’ and ‘Sniper.’ Those’re nouns, for Christ’s sake! So we should probably get….more in the habit of addressing each other by name. Our real names.”

Spy startled a bit at that. “I see.”

Sniper nodded. He grinned. “I think this may even call for a brand new introduction.” He put on a new voice, one that was friendlier, brighter. “‘Ello, you with the mask that makes you stick out like a sore thumb, the name’s Lawrence Mundy.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sniper could see Spy faintly smile as well. “Hello, Lawrence Mundy. My name...is Jean Gusteau.”

“Why, nice to meet you, Jean! What are you doing all the way out here, in northern Texas?” Sniper – Lawrence, he needed to think of himself as Lawrence now – asked, continuing the charade.

“A crazy friend of mine convinced me it would be a good idea to follow my foolish son back to his hometown,” Jean said, laughing a bit.

“Oh, and which one is your son?”

“He's the one in the horrendously yellow car.”

“And his name?”

“Jeremy. Jeremy Miller.”

“Sounds like a right little bugger,” Lawrence said cheerfully.

“Yes, very much so,” Jean agreed. “He is reckless, and impulsive, and rude.”

“Sounds familiar, mate. You must be where he gets it from.” Lawrence signaled right, mimicking Scout (and he _was_ still Scout – a boy without a real name who was fast and got paid to hit people with bats). “You think he’s going to a rest area?”

“Unlikely. He’s probably hungry,” Jean said, all business again. “Or low on gas.” He turned his body away from Lawrence.

Scout was both, as it turned out. He stopped at a gas station and darted inside, telling one of the workers to, “Fill up my _cah_ , thanks, wicked.” Lawrence pulled up at the pump next to his, shooing Jean out of the van. “Go inside, get a map, _stall Scout_.” Jean nodded. He pulled out his cigarette case, fiddled with it a bit, then look surprised when nothing happened.

“You need to go!” Lawrence urged, already pumping gas.

“My disguise kit isn’t working,” Jean said frankly.

“So?” Lawrence asked mockingly, falling into old patterns. “Weren’t you a spy beforehand? Still need a fancy magic kit to do your job?”

“I don’t have anything else! This is what I’ve used for the past six years!” Jean countered angrily. “I cannot do anything to alter my appearance!”

“You can’t think of _anything?”_ Lawrence asked, incredulous. “What about, I don’t know, taking off your godforsaken mask?”

Jean looked offended he would even suggest such a thing. “You are insufferable.”

“I want that map,” Lawrence insisted. “And we’re doing this for you. Be grateful.”

Jean glared at him. “Turn around. Close your eyes,” he said venomously.

Lawrence did as he was told. “We good?”

No response. He cracked open an eye to see his partner had disappeared. _Just like old times._

Just like old times.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your wonderful comments! its incredibly validating to hear everyone's thoughts and honestly makes writing the fic even more worth it
> 
> as usual, thank you to @east_wind for being my beta through thick and thin!

Spy was deeply uncomfortable with Sniper – Lawrence?  Mundy? Mundy. – addressing him by his fake name. Of course, Mundy didn't know that Spy’s name was anything but real.  He would earnestly use it. _J_ _ean_ this, _Jean_ that.  _Jean, if I find you've lied about your name for the last six years our fragile relationship will break into a million pieces._

Mundy really was trying to turn over a new leaf.  But he couldn't have expected Spy to take off his mask.  Spy had worn it long before he went to Teufort. He took it off for undercover missions where he would have a disguise, and that was it.  Mundy shouldn't have expected him to take it off.

And yet Spy _had_ taken it off.

A bell jingled; he was in the gas station.  He couldn't see Scout, but he wasn't worried.  He made his way to the bathroom. Just as he suspected, Scout was standing at one of the urinals.  Spy placed himself at one not too close to Scout, but not too far in case Scout initiated conversation.

“Jesus, man, your tan lines are awful!”

Ah, yes.  Spy had forgotten about the consequence of not taking his mask off for years.

“Spot of trouble in California,” he said, using a British accent and making his voice slightly higher.  It was a speech pattern he hadn't employed in years, and was confident Scout wouldn't recognize his voice.

“Yeah, don't I – wait, are you British?”  Scout asked excitedly.

“I am,” Spy replied.  He could have been imagining it, but Scout’s accent seemed more obnoxious than it had been when they left New Mexico.

“That's wicked!  Y’know, I'm from Boston myself.  No hard feelings about our little Tea Party, right?” Scout joked

Spy made himself laugh.  “Of course not.”

“See, you Brits are great.  I've had some run-ins with other foreigners, and they were all awful.  German?” Scout made a raspberry with his thumb down. “Scottish?” He made a bigger raspberry.  “French?” With that he made the biggest raspberry of them all.

_This is my almost thirty year old son,_ Spy thought faintly to himself.  “Yes, the French can be difficult,” is what he ended up saying.

“Right, the two of you don't get along!” Scout said in the voice of someone acting surprised.  “Hundred Years’ War, French and Indian and all that.”

“...Yes,” Spy said, caught a little off guard.  He hadn't realized Scout knew about any non-American wars.  He zipped up his pants and commented, “You seem very interested in wars.”

“Not trying to be rude!” Scout said defensively, following suit. “And I'm not.  Interested in wars, I mean. I just – I majored in history in college before I dropped out.  Hopefully I'll be majoring it again when I re-enroll.”

“I'm very happy for you,” Spy said, and found he wasn't lying.  He washed his hands thoroughly. “Is there any specific area you want to study?”

“I really like the Far East, especially with what's happening in Vietnam now,” Scout said.  “Chinese dynasties. Japan’s isolation. Etcetera.”

(Spy didn't realize Scout knew what etcetera meant.)

“Anyway, I’d better get going,” Scout said, moving toward the door.  Spy thought quickly; it was very likely Mundy wasn't done filling up yet.  

“Pardon my asking, but do you know any refreshments a bloke can get here?  It's so different from England,” Spy said. “It's very bright, and rather in-your-face.  I can't make heads or tails of it.”

Scout opened the bathroom door, but held it open for Spy.  Scout smiled – genuinely smiled! Nothing mocking about it! – and said, “‘Course, man, what do you want?

“Nothing too heavy, so perhaps just a drink,” Spy said carefully.

Scout clapped his hands together.  “Do I have the drink for _you_ _!”_   He exclaimed.  “C’mon, follow me, they gotta have it somewhere.”

Spy followed Scout.  The boy (the man, he was almost 28) scoured the store before his eyes rested on their prize, right next to the cash registers.  “Aha!”

Scout picked up a can of soda.  “This,” he began grandly, “is Bonk.”

“Bonk?”

“Bonk,” Scout said solemnly.  “Eight ounces of caffeinated, carbonated mystery fruit.”  He put it on the counter. “Ma’am, I would like to purchase this can of Bonk.”

The cashier rang him up, and Scout grinned.  “Now, I would like to gift this can of Bonk,” he gestured to it, “to you.”  He picked up the soda and put it in Spy’s hand.

“Thank you,” Spy said slowly.  He turned to leave as he saw Scout piling the rest of the Bonk on the counter.  “Good luck, young man.”

“Yeah, you too!”

Spy walked out of the convenience store, can of Bonk in hand.  Mundy’s van was no longer at the pump, and he walked to the side of the store to find it parked in a more hidden spot.  Mundy had his hat over his face and his arms crossed.

Spy quietly opened the door, put his mask on, and then slammed the door.  Mundy didn't react.

“You all good?” He asked.

“I'm fine,” Spy said bitterly.  He pulled his gloves out of his pockets and briefly set down the Bonk.

Mundy readjusted his hat.  “Mission success?”

“I distracted Scout, yes.”

“No, I mean about the map.”

It took Spy a second to realize what his partner was talking about.  “I forgot the map.”

“God _fucking_ dammit.”

“It will be fine.  We will just continue following him.  We can get a map the next time he stops,” Spy sighed.  

Mundy rubbed his temples.  “We’re going to lose him. We're going to lose him, end up stuck in the American Midwest, and have to live out the rest of our lives as farmers until one of us kills the other.”

“It is a possibility,” Spy agreed.  “But that's only if we lose Scout.”

Mundy squared his shoulders and huffed.  “I still want a map.”

“How nice for you.  Oh look, the Boy Wonder is pulling out,” Spy commented.

Mundy hurriedly started the engine as Scout turned left out of the gas station.  A few seconds later, he followed suit, maintaining a safe distance behind him.

“By the way, why did you come out with Bonk?” Mundy asked.  

“Bonk?  The acid Scout drinks?”  Spy made a face. “You must be imagining things.”

Mundy didn’t press the issue, and didn't bring it up again.  The unopened Bonk rested safe in Spy’s pocket, as the first gift he had received from his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "i'm not spy," said spy


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a chapter update only 3 days after the last one? it's more likely than you think
> 
> as usual, a HUGE thanks to @east_wind for being my beta; you're seriously the best tabs (and everyone else go check out their stuff!!!)
> 
> thank you for your comments!!! i'm glad people are enjoying this story bc it really was such a joy to write and your comments make me feel amazing

Lawrence loved driving, but he was growing weary of the continental U.S. He had forgotten how huge America was, and more than that, how uninteresting the landscape from the highway appeared. Texas turned into Oklahoma. Oklahoma became Arkansas, which then shortly became Missouri. At that point Lawrence was ready to collapse; they had been driving for twelve hours. Jean had fallen asleep an hour or so ago.

Finally, Scout pulled off the highway in search of a motel. Lawrence parked across the street of the one Scout picked, somewhere where they could see him but he couldn't see them. Lawrence turned off the engine. First things first, he relieved himself outside, as well as emptying his jars.

_(“You're driving! And it's vile!”_

_"I’ve done it before, just don't watch.”_

_Jean squeezed his eyes tightly shut, muttering, “Disgusting,” over and over again.)_

Jean looked nicer asleep than awake, Lawrence noticed. Not that he wasn't a looker awake, but asleep he didn't sneer, or have a perpetually furrowed brow, or grimace. He didn't flinch when Lawrence called him, “Jean,” and didn't tense up when they talked about Scout. When he was asleep, Jean looked like someone who had never been hurt.

Lawrence gently shook his shoulder, waking him up. Jean half-opened his eyes to glare at him.

“I'm bloody wiped out, so you take first watch. Scout’s across the street, his car’s right in front of his room,” Lawrence said matter-of-factly. Jean nodded, and stretched, waking himself up. Soon, Lawrence had nodded off himself.

It felt like only a few seconds when Spy jostled him awake two hours later to start his own watch. His two hours passed uneventfully, and he again woke up Jean. And so it continued until Jean was shaking him awake frantically.

“He’s leaving!” He urged. “He’s leaving right now! Start the engine!”

Lawrence was only half aware of what he was doing, but he managed to pull out of their hidden spot as Scout started toward the highway again. His adrenaline skyrocketed and didn't wear off until they were safely behind Scout on I-44. There was a tense silence in the van until Lawrence asked, “He really pulled out that fast?”

“He did not pay for his room,” Jean bit out. “Or he paid last night. I don't know how American motels function.”

“I mean, it's fine,” Lawrence said tentatively. “We’re still on his trail.”

“I know that; we are still behind him and not desperately lost in Midwestern America,” Jean snapped back.

“Christ, don't bite my head off, mate,” Lawrence said, trying to keep his tone light. He changed lanes, putting some more distance between them and Scout. “I’m not mad. Honest mistake.”

“I understand what you are trying to do, but it is only making me angrier,” Jean gritted out. “Pay attention to the road. Do not say anything else.”

Lawrence’s eyebrows lifted, but he heeded Jean’s advice. Traffic was picking up; though Scout had left early, they were approaching St. Louis during rush hour. Scout also seemed to have noticed the influx of cars, and turned off the highway to navigate the backroads. Lawrence followed suit.

Jean was brooding; Lawrence recognized the signs. He had done it enough in Teufort. It frustrated Lawrence to no end. He didn’t know why his partner was angry, and the lack of communication wasn’t helping. At some point they crossed into Illinois and got back on the highway, the traffic behind them.

Jean didn’t talk to him for a good chunk of Illinois, which left Lawrence with the opportunity to continue resenting America’s vastness. He had seen Illinois on a map. It didn’t look that big across, especially compared to Texas, or California, or any of the Western states, in fact. But it had been about two and a half hours since they crossed into the state and they were still in it.

Finally, Jean broke the silence. “Why are Americans so obsessed with rock music?” he sneered, referring to the steady stream of music that had been playing. “There are other genres.”

“What do the French listen to?” Lawrence asked.

“There’s still some rock. Not this – oversaturation, though,” Jean said. “There’s folk music, too, and some new electronic music.”

“I like the 'oversaturation' of rock, I think. ‘S got energy,” Lawrence commented.

“You would,” Jean muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing at all, you guitar-hypnotized neanderthal. Jeremy is also a victim to basic drum beats and simple lyrics.”

Lawrence’s hands tightened on the wheel. _Just because Jean’s being a provocative dick doesn’t mean you have to._

“You and Scout would be two peas in a pod. All he listened to in his free time was listen to rock,” Jean said under his breath.

Jean was just being irritable, then. That was fine. Lawrence had had to deal with irritable Jean for six years, he could handle a little more. Just to be an ass, though, Lawrence turned up the music.

Scout pulled over in Indianapolis around noon – “to fill the pit he calls his stomach,” to quote Jean – and Lawrence took that as an opportunity to get food for the two of them as well.

“Scout’s pulling into a Macca’s,” Lawrence said. “Looks like he’s going in to sit down. We should get food, too.”

Jean gave him a blank stare. “A ‘Macca’s?’”

“Y’know, Macca’s. The restaurant that’s apparently all over this bloody country.” Lawrence pointed at the restaurant. “McDonald’s?”

_“Doux Jésus_...save me from Australians,” Jean shook his head. “Where do you suppose we eat?”

“It has to be fast. Fried chicken good with you?” Lawrence asked, spotting a KFC.

“No,” Jean said shortly. “But we can still go there to stay on Scout’s trail. I will simply suffer for the greater mission.”

Another unwelcome but familiar attitude – melodramatic Jean. Lawrence pulled into the KFC.

They ordered their food to go and anxiously waited. Jean kept his eyes on Scout’s car down the street. Finally, their food arrived, and they climbed back in the van.

_Still no map,_ Lawrence mourned, starting the engine and opening his sandwich. He pulled out of the parking lot of the KFC and maneuvered his way to the McDonald’s. Then, they waited.

“You are sure he can’t see us, yes?” Jean confirmed, and Lawrence gave an affirmative grunt.

“We’re good, mate, don’t worry,” he said.

Scout took his time eating, in no rush to leave. Lawrence didn’t mind particularly, but he could tell Jean was still stressed from the way his leg was bouncing. He thought about saying something reassuring, then remembered how Jean had reacted to that earlier. To distract himself, he checked the thermometer. There was a noticeable difference between Indiana and New Mexico, which should have been obvious, but surprised him nonetheless. Lawrence was so used to every day being above twenty-six degrees that the fact it was a mere twelve out was shocking.

Scout finally finished, and Lawrence followed him back onto I-65. Jean was still eating his food, a disgusted look on his face.

Lawrence wasn’t prepared for Scout to drive all the way to Boston that day. It was four to five states and 900 miles away. But Scout drove all the way through Ohio (a longer state than Indiana or Illinois) and Pennsylvania (a state that, in Lawrence’s opinion, was illegally long), stopping for gas briefly in New York. They switched highways a number of times, and paid cash tolls directly behind Scout. Dinner was a similar affair to lunch, only at ten o’clock at night and with the added pleasure of Jean falling asleep halfway through his meal.

As they entered Massachusetts, Lawrence realized he and Jean didn’t have a particular plan regarding housing or jobs in Boston. But it was past two in the morning and he was bone tired, so at that point in time he couldn’t bring himself to care. He followed Scout all the way to an apartment complex (where Scout’s journey seemed to end), and wrote down the address on the steering wheel on the back of an old receipt with a pen he found buried in his van. Then, he set off and found a secluded area off the side of the road to park, and fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have an econ exam in less than 12 hours but here you guys go
> 
> so i'm sorry i haven't replied to any comments on the fic bc i have(had) a thing about artificial inflation of comments on fics but here's the thing.....fuck that  
> so from now on i will be replying to comments (like a normal human being) bc like.....whomst cares. you guys have been so supportive of me even though i don't reply and i can't thank you enough for that - big shout out to the anon on tumblr!!!! again it made me so Big Happy
> 
> as usual, thank you to @east_wind for betaing!

Spy startled awake with Mundy’s head on his shoulder. His hat was precariously balanced between them, and his mouth was slightly open. Spy gently touched the area where Mundy’s face was and found it wet. _Drool._

“It's a good thing I love you,” he muttered quietly. He squinted; the sun was shining right in his eyes. Spy moved his head around and found himself in an area he didn't recognize.

“Hey. Hey, wake up, bushman,” Spy said, gently pushing him off his shoulder. “Where'd you take us?”

“Wozzat?” Mundy asked blearily.

“Where. Are. We,” Spy repeated.

“Boston, where else?” Mundy said. He rubbed his eyes with his hand, sliding it in between his glasses. “Ah, that's right. You fell asleep before we got here.” He grinned at Spy. “You look better when you're asleep.”

“You look better when you're not talking,” Spy replied smoothly. “And what do we do now? We have no jobs and no place to live.”

“We've got some money left over from Teufort. I mean, I do, at least. I assumed you did,” Mundy said. He was stretching the best he could in the confined space.

“I do.”

“Great, so we can combine it and look for a place to rent,” Mundy said. “Then we can look for jobs.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Spy snorted. “Our skills aren't...domestic, to say the least.”

“We can make them domestic. We can be domestic,” Mundy said.

“We can be domestic?” Spy repeated.

“What's that?”

“We can be domestic. That's what you said.”

“Did I?” Mundy scratched his head. Spy made a noise of affirmation. “I didn't mean it like that. I mean,” he gave Spy a look, “unless you want it to mean that.”

Spy shrugged noncommittally, not wanting to reveal too much. “Let's focus on a place to stay that isn't your dirty van.”

Mundy started the van, though not without complaints that, _she's not dirty, mate, you're gonna hurt her feelings._ The pair drove around, searching.

Every apartment they came across was too expensive, even though the landlords assured them they could take out loans. Mundy didn't trust the banks and Spy didn't trust anyone (strike that, _almost_ anyone now) so they turned down the offers. They then had to take a break for lunch, which they were allowed to enjoy slowly for once, before continuing the search.

Mundy kept arguing that Spy should take off his mask, but Spy remained firm. It was his balaclava, dammit, and he wasn't going to stop wearing it because it made him “look like a bloody axe murderer” or was “a fashion atrocity against God.” Spy refused to take fashion advice from a man who wore an akubra.

Finally, the pair came across an apartment that wasn't outrageously expensive. It was one bedroom and one bathroom in a seedier part of town, but it also didn't require them to sell their souls to the bank. It was also pre-furnished, though the furniture looked like it had survived prohibition. It was still a bargain.

They wrote a check for the deposit, and were given the keys.

“Are you sure you boys don't want a two-bedroom?” The landlady asked, smacking her gum.

“We're fine, love,” Mundy reassured her. “We're not made out of money.”

The landlady blew a bubble and popped it. “No, no, I get it. You don't have to explain yourselves to me.”

(She said they didn't have to explain themselves, so they didn't.)

Spy was not ashamed to admit that the first thing he did was flop on the bed. To be fair, he hadn't had a real bed in six years. His time was spent in his bunk, and later the Murphy in Mundy’s van. Not to mention he hadn't had a bed, period, for the last two days.

Mundy flopped down on the bed as well, or more accurately, flopped down on Spy. Spy groaned.

“Ge-off,” he said into the mattress.

“What was that? Stay on?” Mundy said innocently. Spy turned his face to the side so he could breathe.

“I'm not as young as I once was, and you are heavy,” he stated.

“I'm not that heavy,” Mundy whined, but he got off of Spy.

“You are taller than me and you've been carrying around a rifle for the last six years. One tends to acquire muscle mass,” Spy said, dusting his suit off.

“Your hands are the size of dinner plates. Your feet could be classified as a new species of small mammal.”

“I thought you liked the size of my...feet.”

Spy shot him a dirty look. “No time for euphemisms. We need to find jobs first.”

“But we've already accomplished half of our list,” Mundy pointed out.

“Let me repeat myself: I am not as young as I once was, and you are heavy.” Spy put his pair of keys in his pocket. “And now I will do my part to finish our list. I’ll be back later.”

Spy left before Mundy could complain. When he was out of sight of the apartment complex, he took his mask off and put it in his other pocket. Mundy may have had a point about his appearance, and the balaclava was the most recognizable part of Spy. He would just have to get used to not wearing it around Mundy.

Spy walked around Boston, looking for help wanted signs. The layout of the city was different than he remembered, but it had been almost thirty years since he had last visited. Thirty years was a long time. Cities shifted. Lovers changed. Children grew up.

Back to the problem at hand. Spy was having a minor crisis on whether or not he should try to get a job as a chef. It was true that it was one of the reasons Mundy had agreed to travel to a major city, but it wasn't something Spy wanted to do. He had spent the last twenty-five years of his life doing what someone else wanted him to do, and he wanted to do something for himself as soon as he could.

_Besides,_ he thought to himself sullenly. _It's not like I can keep lying to Mundy for forever._

Spy continued his walk. He popped in a few stores, but they were all looking for a part-time employee to mop floors, sort inventory, and the like. It was looking like Spy would be going back home _(home, it sounded so nice to think and know it was semi-permanent)_ empty handed when he wandered into the barber’s shop.

“Oy! You here to help?” One of the barbers yelled from the back of the shop.

“I could be, yes,” Spy said carefully. “Are you hiring?”

Another man appeared in the back, and he said something to the other. It was something about Spy not being from the area; he wasn't actively trying to read their lips.

“You know how to handle a knife?” The new man asked.

“I do.” If only they knew just how true that was.

“You work well with scissors? You think you can cut in a straight line?” The man continued. Spy nodded.

“I would say I could, yes.”

The men reconvened their discussion for a minute or so. Finally, the second man turned back to Spy.

“What's your name?” He asked.

“Jean Gusteau,” Spy lied. It was so much easier to pretend to be someone else when he didn't care about the person he was lying to.

“Well, Jean, you're hired. Welcome to the team of Jefferson and son.” The man smiled. “I’m Jefferson. He's son.”

“Your hours are nine to five, Monday to Saturday,” the son said briskly. “You start tomorrow. Don't be late.”

“I would never dream of it, _monsieurs,”_ Spy said graciously. He saluted the two and left the shop.

Jefferson and son were a team he'd never dreamt he'd be joining, and yet there he was. He checked his watch and saw that it was already seven. He stopped by a five-and-dime and picked up two sandwiches. He got a ham and cheese for himself and a roast beef with mayo for Mundy. He shook his head as he was paying for it; it looked disgusting, but Mundy loved them.

Spy entered the apartment quietly and set the sandwiches on the table. Mundy wasn't back yet, so Spy ate his alone. He was exhausted and eager to sleep in a bed, so as soon as he finished he stripped off his suit, set an alarm on his personal clock, and fell asleep in the bed.

The only time he woke up that night was when he felt Mundy crawl in with him and drape his arm across him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been Two Weeks because sometimes midterms consume your life for a little bit but we're back baby and we've crossed the halfway mark  
> Don't forget to comment bc they all make me feel warm and fuzzy inside  
> As usual, a ginormous thank you to @east_wind!!!! You are truly my rock

Lawrence woke up bright and early to continue his job hunt. He’d had no luck the previous day, but he felt confident he could fulfill Jean’s demand by the time the sun set again. He wrote a quick note so Jean wouldn’t worry, and left it where he knew he would see it.

He kissed his partner on the forehead before heading out. Jean wasn't wearing his mask – both literally and metaphorically. It was a good look. It felt natural. Lawrence only wished Jean looked like that more often.

Lawrence decided that he’d find more opportunities if he searched by foot rather than by van. He also didn't want to subject his van to the cruelties of Boston city streets – he'd prefer to live in the suburbs, if not a rural area. But ideally he would stick by Jean, and if Jean wanted to stay in Boston for the rest of his life, Lawrence wasn't going to leave.

The city wasn't even half bad, considering. True, it was dirty in the most inorganic way possible, and it was far too small and crowded for his taste, but he could go where he wanted. He didn't have to kill people all day long. He wasn't at the will of the Mann brothers.

Lawrence was under the impression Jean enjoyed cities much more than him. Maybe it was a spy thing – it would be much easier to blend in with a large group of people than the eight he'd been trapped with for the past six years. Lawrence, on the other hand, felt much more comfortable in a wide, open space. Sniping was much easier when he didn't have to worry about civilians in the way.

Sniping was also much easier than job hunting. Lawrence had walked in and out of more places than he could count. How had Jean done it in one day? What natural charm did he have that Lawrence didn't?

Well, Lawrence already knew the answer to that. Jean could be a delightful son of a bitch when he wanted to pretend to be. Lawrence was glad to be privy to the real Jean.

It was past lunchtime when Lawrence wandered into a UPS store with a “Drivers Wanted” sign in the window.

 _I can drive. I could do this,_ he reasoned. _Hope they'll take me._

He got passed through basic clearance easily enough. He was incredibly glad he decided to get a U.S. driver’s license while in New Mexico – he wasn't sure how long he'd be in the States when he first took the job in Teufort, and an IDP didn't cut it for much longer than a year. He also couldn't stand getting his van taken by the Yank government, so he did it for her more than anything else.

Either way, it took less than an hour for Lawrence to receive proper certification to be a UPS driver. He was given a basic schedule to follow, starting that day. He’d deliver within Boston, as well as the local suburbs. All in all, a success.

Driving a truck wasn't too different from driving his van, aside from the fact he couldn’t care less if the truck was damaged during his runs. The packages weren't particularly difficult – some were unusually heavy, but after years of toting a rifle he was strong enough to haul all sorts of packages. He was only given one hundred twenty-five packages to deliver - half of what he would normally deliver, due to him starting in the middle of the day.

The most troublesome part of the job was finding the different addresses. He had a map of Boston sprawled open across the passenger seat that he would periodically peer over while stopped at red lights. It all just felt so scrunched together after the wide open desert of New Mexico.

Lawrence found himself absently hoping Jean was enjoying Boston more. He really just wanted Jean to be happy.

* * *

Spy woke up to an empty bed, immediately sending his heart crashing into his stomach before he noticed Mundy’s ridiculous hat and the note stuck onto it on the bedpost. _Ah. So my bushman has sought work, not abandoned me._

He sat up and stretched. The clock ticked away, and told him it was eight a.m. on the dot. He’d have some time before he was due at his new employer’s. Spy took a quick shower and pulled on one of his suits before leaving the apartment in search of some sort of food. Nothing fast - no, he was looking for a grocery store of sorts, where he could buy some actual sustenance.

His search proved effective, and he walked away from the local grocery with a baguette and some mangoes because he knew Mundy favored them. Spy dropped the food back off at the apartment, breaking off an end for his own breakfast. He ate as he walked to work, something he hadn’t had the chance to do in a long time.

He arrived ten minutes before opening, and Jefferson the younger let him in.

 _“Merci,_ thank you,” he said offhandedly.

“Did you just move here from France?” the young man asked curiously. “Got a strong accent there.”

“No, I’ve lived here for years now,” Spy said honestly. “I simply never wanted to, ah, “fix” my accent? Seems like a waste of money and time to take away an integral part of myself. You understand?”

The man nodded, sharpening a knife. “Mmm. Yeah.”

“Elliot! Get back here and help me shake out the smocks!” Jefferson the elder yelled from the back. “Jean, good to see you. Wipe off some of the counters, will you?”

Spy did as he was told. It was still less disconcerting having the two Jeffersons call him by his pseudonym than Mundy, despite knowing the latter longer. He shrugged it off. Six years had passed as Spy. Four of those had passed as Jean. A few more could pass as Jean. Just until he was sure Mundy wouldn’t leave.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> midterm season is over for me but here's the thing: the grind never stops. anyway, i hope you guys enjoy this chapter! we're tantalizingly close to one of my favorite chapters   
> As usual, thank you to @east_wind for betaing!

Spy was let off work at precisely five p.m. as promised. Jefferson and Elliot waved him off, and his slow walk home was lengthened as he stopped by the grocery again, this time to pick up more suitable dinner food. He'd earned enough in tips to buy some meat and cheese from the deli, and even splurged some of his Teufort money on a bottle of champagne.

“I’m home,” he announced as he opened the door. He was met with silence. “Lawrence?”

Mundy’s hat was still on the bedpost. That calmed Spy’s nerves a bit, and he picked it up and fiddled with the brim. The perishables were put in the tiny fridge, and Spy sat at the kitchen table and waited.

He waited for a long time. He didn't realize he had dozed off until he was woken by the door opening.

“What're you still doing up?” Mundy asked gently.

“Waiting for you,” Spy said, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Must be getting round ten thirty, now,” Mundy said. “Have you eaten?”

“No, I –” A yawn interrupted Spy, but he continued. “I bought some food. I thought you would be back earlier and we could eat together.”

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Mundy said, frowning. “You should eat something or you'll hate yourself in the morning.”

“I suppose so,” Spy said in agreement. “What took you so long? Still couldn't find a job?”

“On the contrary, mate!” Mundy said excitedly. “You're looking at UPS’s newest driver!”

Spy raised his eyebrows. “Will UPS be keeping you this late every night?”

“Don't worry, Jean,” Mundy reassured, and Spy only just stopped himself from grimacing. “I’m given a set number of packages each day instead of a timesheet. Once I learn my way around it'll be a right breeze.”

Spy snorted. “And until then?”

Mundy shrugged with a smile. “I might have a few late nights.” He rubbed Spy’s shoulder. “Now you eat, and I’m gonna hit the sack.”

“You better shower first, bushman,” Spy called after him. Mundy made an ambiguous noise, and Spy looked back at the table. Dinner together could wait.

* * *

Spy saw Mundy off and on, and the days blended together. Some days Mundy would be waiting outside _Jefferson and Son’s,_ but most days Spy would fall asleep alone and wake up with Mundy at his back. It was better than falling asleep together and waking up to a cold bed, so he didn’t complain.

Mundy didn’t ask about Scout. He seemed to sense Spy would seek him out when he was ready, but Spy himself wasn’t sure when that would be. He half-cursed himself for making such a spur-of-the-moment, reckless decision in Teufort. He was nearly fifty years old (by God, he didn’t want to linger on that); he and Mundy could have easily had a mature, adult discussion before uprooting themselves and driving across the continent.

Then again, he wouldn’t exchange the thrill of the impromptu move and the easy domesticity they’d fallen into for the world. He was learning more and more about Mundy – despite knowing him for six years, being his friend for five, and intimately involved for two, he was still surprised at the little things that emerged outside Teufort. For example, how Mundy owned two non-tinted pairs of glasses – his sunglasses were his strongest prescription, which was why he wore them while doing mercenary work. Mundy’s vision was abhorrent, which Spy, upon learning this fact, wasted no time teasing him about.

Spy wondered if he'd changed outside of Teufort, at least from Mundy’s perspective. He was trying to loosen up. Walking around without his balaclava wasn't such a shock after the first time, and now he was almost more used to not having it on than the reverse.

Of course, there was also the elephant in the room that Spy had opted to ignore from the moment Miss Pauling contacted him with the mercenary offer. Spy had been given countless opportunities over the years; as he went from “Spy” to “Spook,” and then quickly to “Jean.” At any moment during their friendship he easily could have corrected Mundy. It wouldn’t have affected them much then. Mundy would have paused, made a dry comment, and they would have continued as they had before.

The longer he lied, the worse the fallout would be. Spy knew this, and still he waited.

The other problem was, of course, Scout. Spy had asked Mundy where Scout was living, as he had been asleep when they’d gone into Boston. The address was written on a small slip of paper and placed carefully in the drawer where they kept the utensils. He’d glanced at it once or twice, but never even tried to find it on a map, much less go there himself.

“Jean.”

Spy startled out of his head. He and Mundy were eating dinner together, which was becoming a more regular occurrence. “What is it?”

Mundy’s eyes shifted. “It’s just – don’t take this the wrong way, okay?”

“Speak, bushman.”

“You don’t - you don’t have any, y’know, lingering feelings for…?” Mundy trailed off, but Spy understood his question.

“Of course not,” Spy answered, modestly surprised. “Florence was very dear to me for a time. I would not be surprised if we could become friends again. But I only have eyes for you.” He returned to his food, but Mundy remained quiet. He glanced up. “What  _is_ it?”

“Are you feeling alright?” Mundy asked. “You’ve been off for awhile now. I thought it was a one-off thing, but you still seem different.” Spy chuckled. “Of course I am different. Boston is not New Mexico.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Spy said, being careful to keep his tone neutral and naturally-paced. So Mundy had noticed his worry. “It’s a big change. I’m still not used to waking up and not seeing the others. For all their faults, I miss them.” As Spy said the words aloud, he knew he wasn’t lying. He had some of his most thought-provoking conversations with the Engineer. Once every few weeks or so he would join Demoman for drinks. He and Mundy were obviously closest, but the rest of team had been important to him as well.

Mundy sensed Spy’s change in mood. “If that’s all, we can contact them. Tavish wanted to keep in touch, remember? I dialed him up one of our first few nights here. You were already asleep.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I feel right terrible. Has this been eating you up the entire time?”

_This is your chance. Tell the truth. Confess._

Spy nodded. “I did not ask. It wasn’t your fault.”

_You stupid, stupid man. You are setting yourself up to be hurt. Is that what you want?_

Spy smiled and gripped Mundy’s arm, and said nothing more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes...finally getting to the "scout's mom" tag..... :)  
> Please remember to review! I love hearing what you guys think!  
> And as always, thank you to @east_wind!

Lawrence loved Jean with all of his heart, God knows he did, but he could be downright moronic. Jean still hadn't visited Scout yet. Lawrence couldn't say he was surprised, but it was disappointing. Then again, Jean had lived in the same building as Scout for six years and said nothing. He’d implied plenty, but Scout was not a man of subtlety. It had remained unspoken, so to Scout it had remained unknown.

Despite this, Jean seemed to be more or less fine. He'd called Tavish and evidently gotten Ludwig’s information, as Lawrence had come home one day to hear him prattling in German over the phone. He acted happy.

Life was becoming as regular as it had been at Teufort. Lawrence could easily be home by 4:30 and meet Jean as his own job was winding down. They'd have dinner together and fool around some, but mostly they'd just enjoy each other's company. On mutual days off, Lawrence would drive them out of the city. Some days it was to the beach, others to forested areas nearby, and sometimes they'd even visit small towns. Lawrence enjoyed those the best. They reminded him of Teufort in all of the good ways, and none of the bad.

Jean was still hard to get a read on. He was more open than ever before, but Lawrence would ask to confirm his emotions about half the time. It didn’t seem to bother Jean.

There _was_ something bothering him still, though. Lawrence thought it had had only been missing the others, but Jean’s underlying troubled demeanor remained relatively unchanged. If Lawrence hadn’t known him as long as he did, he might have missed it. It wasn’t in his speech or his actual behavior – that would be too obvious. It was in the way Jean moved through space, and the flickering emotion in his eyes. Lawrence just couldn’t figure out the root cause.

He hoped Jean would just tell him on his own. He trusted him unconditionally, and he hoped Jean did the same. He seemed to.

Lawrence didn't blame him for his continued wariness, though. Civilian life was a different beast than working as a mercenary. More than that, actually being a civilian was very different from pretending to be one. Jean hadn't been a true citizen in close to thirty years, by Lawrence’s calculations.

Lawrence wasn’t too much better, having sniped for approximately the same amount of time, but he had taken long breaks between jobs up until Teufort. Jean was much more of a workaholic. Lawrence wasn’t a psychologist, but it was clear Jean had been trying to forget something – someone – that was also bordering thirty years old.

That was neither here nor there, though. Lawrence loved Jean, but those were things for him to realize on his own. Jean would visit Scout eventually, and everything would fall into place.

While waiting for such monumental realizations, everyday life continued as it had before. Domesticity prevailed. Some days Jean would come home, complaining about “American customs, they don’t even make _sense_ , who doesn’t say hello before asking for a haircut?” and Lawrence would remind him about cultural, and even regional differences. Then Jean would scoff and say how he _knew_ that, but it didn’t make it any less frustrating. Other days it would be Lawrence himself complaining about the roads and Jean would remind him that it was just the Commonwealth that drove on the left. Jean would try to teach him French, and snort at his mispronunciations.

It was honestly the happiest Lawrence had ever been.

The days blended into each other at some level, but Lawrence had small pleasures to distinguish them. Sometimes Jean would promise to cook a fancier dinner, sometimes Lawrence would suggest a short evening drive. As it was, there was nothing exceptionally remarkable about Lawrence’s Tuesday thus far. He was finishing up his route. His last package was to be delivered to the far outskirts of the city – the suburbs, really. It wasn’t his first time out there, but he could count the number of times he’d been in the Boston suburbs on one hand. Still, he made it in one piece and was soon walking to the front door of an innocuous house between two other identical ones.

He rang the doorbell. There was a scrambling from within, followed by a muffled, “I’ll be right there, I’m coming – hon, can you get that?” Lawrence heard the sound of running feet, then the door was suddenly yanked open and he was confronted by a face he didn’t think he was going to have to face alone. Scout gaped, and Lawrence reflected the sentiment.

“Why the hell are you here?” Scout asked, shocked, as Lawrence dumbly stated, “You don’t live here.”

“Jeremy? Who is it?” The same voice from before asked, and before either of the men could answer, a woman Lawrence recognized to be Scout’s mother appeared from around the corner. Jean’s photos were accurate, but they hardly captured the woman standing in front of Lawrence at the moment. She was older, with visible laugh lines and wrinkles on her forehead, but also a radiance and confidence that was impossible to record two-dimensionally. Florence Miller. Lawrence wanted to smack himself in the head, how could he have not realized?

“Oh, the delivery man!” She exclaimed with an accent thicker than Scout’s. “You must be here with my prescription!” She reached out to take the package, but Scout shouted, “Ma, no!” as he body-slammed Lawrence.

Lawrence swore, but twisted his body, and managed to land at an angle that hurt but didn’t break anything. Scout was saying something _(“Listen here you sonuvabitch I don’t know how you found me but you’re gonna leave my family alone and never come back to Boston–”)_ but Lawrence wasn’t listening, instead concentrating on evaluating his injuries.

“It wasn’t my decision –” he tried to explain, raising his voice, but Scout was still yelling over him.

“How are you gonna come at me with crap like that –”

“– if you listened to anything I’m saying –”

“– complete maniac –”

Lawrence shouted something back, and their voices blended together in a dissonant cacophony until he wasn’t sure who was yelling what.

_“JEREMY!”_

Lawrence and Scout abruptly stopped. Florence stood with her fists clenched at her sides, incredulous and enraged. “What is going on?!”

Scout looked abashed. “Ma, you don’t understand –”

She snapped her fingers. “Get off this nice man. Now.” Scout hopped up, and she angrily said, “You’re lucky I didn’t call the cops on you, Jeremy, I thought you were better than this!”

“No, Ma, this is someone I used to work with!” Scout complained.

“And that’s supposed to make this better?” she said angrily. She turned to Lawrence, who was still on the ground. “I am so, so sorry – here, let me help you up. There we go. Oh my god. I’m so mortified – Jeremy!” She crossed her arms. “Apologize!”

“Ma –”

_“Apologize!”_

“Jesus, I’m sorry, Sniper!” he said. “Sorry that you’re in my _damn city –”_

“Jeremy!” Scout turned back to his mother. “Ma, he’s a mercenary, he was hired by the same people who hired me! He’s dangerous!”

“C’mon, mate, I don’t even have my gun with me –” Lawrence began, but Florence cut him off.

“Excuse me!” she said loudly. Lawrence and Scout stopped. She pinched her temples, and Lawrence couldn’t help but notice it was the exact same way Jean did when he was exasperated. He wondered if he had picked it up from her.

“Sir, would you like to come in and discuss this further sitting down?” she asked, somehow both terse and kind.

“Ma!”

“I wasn’t asking you Jeremy,” she said quickly. She looked back at Lawrence. “Why don’t you come in, then?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got it out before thanksgiving! my exam week was super rough but we got through it, i had a wonderful weekend to relax (with @east_wind, in fact, my wonderful beautiful beta who did a bang up job on this chapter as usual), and i'm about to go on break so here we are  
> i hope you guys enjoy, it was probably my favorite chapter to write in this fic! please tell me what you think in the comments

Florence sat Lawrence down at her kitchen table. Scout sat across from him, glaring a hole through his head. Florence sat between them, looking ready if not eager to mediate.

“Now. We are all adults here, and we’re gonna behave like it,” she said, shooting a glare at Scout. He crossed his arms and looked away. “I’ll start. I’m Flo, I’m Jeremy’s mother. You two know each other, I take it?”

“You could say that,” Scout muttered.

“Like Scout –” Lawrence began, then corrected himself. “Sorry, like Jeremy said before, we worked together. As, ah…”

“Mercenaries?” Flo raised an eyebrow. “Please, you think my baby boy would be doing work like that without his ma knowin’?” Scout flushed, but didn’t say anything. “That work is the reason I was able to move out of the city. That’s my story, what’s yours?”

Lawrence cleared his throat. “Well, the name’s Lawrence, ma’am. Lawrence Mundy. I was a hired sniper, but that’s all behind me now. I came here to start a new life.”

“Yeah, pal, and why’d you choose here?” Scout asked.

Flo turned her piercing gaze on Lawrence. “You know, that’s an _excellent_ question, Mr. Mundy. I’m sure you’re a very nice man but that is a _shocking_ coincidence. Jeremy may make mistakes, and jump the gun at times, but he is my son, and having a sniper follow him across the country to his hometown is concerning, to say the least.”

Lawrence swallowed. “I swear, ma’am, I’m not here to hurt your son. In fact, it was only partly my idea to come here.”

“You’re not alone?” Scout burst out. “Who the hell is here with you? Demo? Medic?”

“No, neither of them,” Lawrence said quickly. His heart was pounding. “It’s actually someone you would know, ma’am.”

Flo cocked her head. “What are you talking about?”

Scout narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, what are you playing at, Sniper?”

Lawrence was sure he was sweating like he was back in the Outback. Jean should have been the one to do this. This was his family. But on the other hand, if Jean hadn’t taken the initiative yet, would he ever? A golden opportunity had been placed in front of Lawrence, and he couldn’t afford to pass it up.

“Jean Gusteau,” he burst out. The monumental recognition he expected from Flo did not come. She blinked at him before asking, “Who?”

“Jean. You – how do you not – Jean _Gusteau,”_ Lawrence sputtered. “French. Jean. About my height, always wore that damn balaclava – Jeremy’s father!”

Scout’s mouth hung open and Flo’s eyes widened in recognition.

 _“Spy?”_ Scout whispered.

“Yes! Spy, Jean Gusteau!” Lawrence exclaimed.

Flo pursed her lips, but her eyes were full of compassion. “Oh, hon…”

“What is it?” Lawrence asked.

“His name...his name isn’t Jean,” she said softly. “The man you’re talking about – if we are talking about the same person – is René Lefevre.”

Lawrence blankly smiled at her, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about?!” Scout asked, shrill. “How could _Spy–”_

“Jeremy, you’re excused,” Flo snapped. “I’ll talk with you later. Go.”

Scout looked furious and upset, but he obeyed without question. Flo and Lawrence stared each other down in silence until the patter of feet disappeared.

“Can I ask what your relationship with…Spy is?” Flo asked hesitantly.

“Does it matter?” Lawrence responded.

“Hon, this is for your sake, not mine,” Flo said. “Are you acquaintances, or friends, or…” She trailed off, and the implication hung in the air.

“The spook told you that much about himself?” Lawrence asked.

“He was twenty when we met,” she said. She sounded wistful. “He must be very different now, but at the time he wasn’t difficult to read, and he was so...honest. At least with me, he was.” She brushed her hair out of her face. “Is he happy with you?”

Lawrence bit his lip. “He was. I thought he was.”

“I understand if you don’t believe me,” Flo continued. “I mean, I wouldn’t believe me.” She shook her head. “You know what, I shouldn’t have said anything at all –”

“No!” Lawrence interrupted. “I mean – well, ma’am –”

“Flo, no more of this “ma’am” crap. Please,” she interjected.

“Flo. I was the one who came to your house and told your son who his father is. You’re the real innocent party here,” Lawrence said.

She snorted. “Innocent. I should’ve told Jeremy, but I was too blinded by my…my pride, or my anger at René.”

“That’s right, he left you, didn’t he,” Lawrence murmured.

“He was so _young_ ,” Flo repeated emphatically. “And he made me feel young. Can you imagine? I felt washed up at _twenty-nine._ My first husband died, I was already twice divorced, and I had seven boys to take care of. Then this charming young man came into my life and made me feel like I didn’t have a care in the world.” She smiled, but her eyes were hard. “And then he left me with eight boys to take care of.”

“Christ.” Lawrence didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m being too hard,” she sighed. “He’d send cash every couple of months. There was never a return address, but I always knew it was from him.” She chuckled. “You know, after he left I knew I’d never love him again, but I always thought that if he ever became a citizen, we could be friends.”

She shook her head. “This isn’t about me. This is about you and René.”

“René.” It felt strange in Lawrence’s mouth. “And how are you sure he wasn’t lying to you then?”

“The same way I know he’s not being honest with you now,” Flo said sadly. “And, well… wait here. I’ll show you something.”

Lawrence was left alone at the table. Jean – not Jean, never Jean again, _Spy_ – had never been an easy pill to swallow. In Teufort it was worse, but Lawrence had assumed leaving would make everything easier. But somewhere inside him, he knew it couldn’t be that simple. Deep down, he knew he didn’t need more proof from Flo. In retrospect, Spy had been too obvious in his lie. Lawrence just hadn’t wanted to disturb their peace. Now he didn’t know how to feel.

No. He gripped his hands until his knuckles turned white. He knew exactly how he felt. He was hurt and angry and betrayed. They’d been partners for nearly three years. He’d trusted Spy with everything, with his parents and his insecurities, and Spy hadn’t even trusted him with his name.

The clicking of heels alerted him to Flo coming back. She was holding a small box, and she carefully placed it on the table. Lawrence watched her remove the lid and pull out a few envelopes, then finally a folded piece of paper. She silently handed the paper to Lawrence, and he opened it.

_Florence,_

_It has been three years since I left. It is now I regret leaving you, but I would not insult you by returning and asking for forgiveness. I just wish to let you know that I am sorry for my actions._

_I_ _trust you have received the money I have sent. I hope it has alleviated some of your financial burden. I hope you have found someone to alleviate the emotional burden._

 _Send my love to Jeremy,  
_ _R_

“René,” Lawrence repeated.

“It’s hard,” Flo said quietly. “Just promise me you won’t let him run away this time.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You seem like a nice man, Mr. Mundy. I hope when we meet again it’ll be under better circumstances.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second to last chapter just as finals approach, i hope y'all enjoy!  
> a MASSIVE thanks to my beta @east_wind, and a special shoutout to @sapphea this chapter who started reading this fic as i was finishing this chapter despite not being into tf2

Mundy wasn’t home. Spy fiddled with his sleeves, trying to ignore the anxiety in the pit of his stomach. It was probably just a late night. There had been plenty of late nights before. Still, they’d been in Boston for a month or two now, and Mundy had become familiar with the roads. It had been weeks since he had come home this late.

Spy’s eyes flickered to the clock. 9:23. It wasn’t even particularly late, considering. But even on the worst days, Mundy had usually finished his deliveries by 7:00. It was enough to make Spy drum his fingers on the kitchen table as he counted the seconds go by.

9:24.

Spy stood up, deciding to pace instead. The nervous energy – it was a new phenomenon, one that had begun after leaving Teufort, where Spy could at least talk to others to distract himself. Here, he had no choice but to sit and wait, worry gnawing at his insides until he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He was lonely – Spy wasn’t too proud to admit that. He was lonely with Mundy, and he was lonely without him. He considered which was worse. There was a certain panic he felt every time he woke up to a cold bed, but there was always a note to calm him, to reassure him his partner hadn’t abandoned him. Mundy knew about his fears, irrational as they were, and he did everything he could to alleviate them when possible.

No, Spy decided, what was worse was the ripping, stabbing pain he felt as Mundy continued to address him by name – by the name that wasn’t his. The closer they had become, the worse he had felt. He was lonely when Mundy would exclaim, _“Jean, you would not believe the day I had!”_ He was lonely when Mundy would carefully ask, _“Have you looked for a chef’s position yet, Jean?”_ He was lonely when Mundy held him down and breathed, _“Jean – Jean, I love you, I love you so much, Jean,”_ in his ear.

_Jean, Jean, Jean._

Spy wasn’t too proud to admit he was lonely, but decades of haughtiness had made it difficult for him to admit, even to himself, that he was afraid. He could count the number of situations that truly, absolutely terrified him on one hand.

His father throwing him out of the house – a distant memory _(“Je n’ai pas de fils, pas de fils à moi serait un pédé!”)_ , but one that still discomforted him.

His first mercenary mission. Thinking back on it, it had been an easy job, and one that had gone remarkably smoothly. But, in the days leading up to it, he had thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest.

Florence informing him she was pregnant. The panic, the terror, the sudden and absolute knowledge that everything had changed, forever, had allowed him to make one of the most foolish decisions of his life – abandoning her, and abandoning his son.

His son, weak, dying, and far from help. The situation had plagued Spy’s nightmares for months once he’d discovered his coworker Jeremy Miller was the same Jeremy he had all but deserted in Boston. The idea of his son participating in the same line of work Spy did had not made for an easy mind, and it had taken him a long time to accept that the concept of Jeremy’s death could and would always terrify him.

And now, Mundy. Mundy, who had kind eyes and spoke soft words, who knew Spy’s pain, who was his equal, who was so _honest_ all the time. Spy clenched his fist. He couldn’t afford to let him go – he wouldn’t give Mundy the chance to leave him.

The sound of the door opening startled him out of his head. Mundy slunk in quietly, and Spy was too relieved to see him that he didn’t initially realize that Mundy never _slunk_. Spy took him by the hands, and said, “I was worried.”

Mundy squeezed Spy’s hands in his own, then let them drop. Spy furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong?”

Mundy looked at him grimly. “Maybe I should be asking you that.”

Spy frowned at him, the anxiety he had felt before turning to annoyance. “You’re not making sense.”

“I…,” Mundy said, trailing off. “Can we sit down?”

They walked over to the kitchen table Spy had been fretting over minutes before, and Mundy sighed. “I’m sorry I’m late. I delivered my last package hours ago, I just had…a lot to think about.”

Spy’s frown deepened. “I was worried,” he repeated in a flat tone.

“I know, you said that already –” Mundy said, tone clearly frustrated, but he stopped himself. “I don’t want to be angry at you –”

“You’re angry at me?” Spy interrupted, his tone snappish. “I’ve been waiting here for hours, and you’re angry at –”

“Spy, _shut up.”_

It wasn’t the command that caused Spy’s heart to drop and for his mouth to snap shut; it wasn’t even Mundy’s tone, which was angrier and more tired than anything he had said to Spy since they left Teufort. It was the fact that Mundy, who had been so charmed by the idea of leaving their old mercenary life behind, had with a simple word become _Sniper_ again.

There was silence.

“I’m sorry,” Mundy said softly, and that was the man that Spy knew. That was the man Spy loved. “I saw Scout today.”

Spy didn’t move. He didn’t do anything that would give himself away.

“I, er dropped the ball on him,” Mundy said awkwardly. “He took it about as well as you would expect.” He lowered his gaze. “I wish you had been there. I wish you had told him yourself.”

Spy didn’t think his heart could sink lower in his chest, but it did. Still, he said nothing.

“He was at the house I was delivering my last package to,” Mundy continued. “I didn’t expect to see him.” He cleared his throat. “The package was for Florence. She was there when I told him about you.”

Spy’s whole body was tense. Scout alone would have been a disaster, but it would have been a survivable one. This was catastrophic. This was so much worse than what he had imagined.

“She was very nice,” Mundy said. “I can see why you fell for her.” His voice dropped to a whisper. _“René.”_

Spy bolted. He hadn’t gotten very far when he felt a hand around his ankle, and he fell to the ground, swearing. Mundy pinned his leg, and he tried to kick him in the chest with his free one.

“Get off me, you _bastard_ _–!”_ Spy snarled, not letting the desperation creep into his voice.

“Oh, I’m the bastard here –” Mundy said angrily, pulling Spy forward by the shirt, and Spy scrambled for something behind him that he could use as a weapon, but then his reason overtook his instincts that _this was Mundy, you can’t hurt him, you’d never hurt him._ He shut his eyes tightly and, ignoring those thoughts, punched him in the stomach. Mundy wheezed and dropped Spy, but no sooner had his shirt been released that his arms were pinned by his sides. Mundy was putting his full weight on Spy’s legs to stop himself from being kicked, and he breathed heavily.

“René,” he hissed.

“Shut up!” Spy spat, struggling.

“René,” Mundy repeated, louder. Spy squeezed his eyes shut once more. “René!”

_“Ta gueule!”_ Spy screeched before remembering French was no good with his bushman – his bushman who had been trying to learn French for him, who had moved to Boston for him, who had stuck by his side for years. “Be quiet – let me go –”

“René, look at me,” Mundy said, bringing his voice down from a shout. Spy kept his eyes tightly closed, because he knew what he would see when he opened them.

“René, _look at me.”_

“Let me _go,”_  Spy demanded. He shuddered as he felt Mundy lean down further, but the strong hands came off of his arms and clasped around his back. Mundy pressed his face into Spy’s shoulder.

“I’m never going to let you go,” he mumbled. “Please don’t run away. Please don’t leave me.” His voice fell to a whisper again. “René, please look at me.”

For maybe the first time in his life, René opened his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, this is the last chapter! Thank you for sticking with this this long. It's been a journey, especially since I began this almost a year ago now and managed to finish and publish the whole thing. This is the first major multi-chaptered fic I ever completed so it holds a very special place in my heart.  
> @east_wind, you were literally my rock through all of this. I could not have done this without you and your continuous support, and thank you for being an incredible beta. I can't wait for our next adventure!

Time heals all wounds, or so it was said. For René and Lawrence, much of that time happened sooner rather than later. It wasn’t a perfect situation - how could it be? - but it was one they worked through together, slowly but surely. Lawrence became accustomed to saying, “René.” René became accustomed to hearing his name again. Neither of them were afraid the other would leave.

Directly following the revelation, they sat down and had a frank discussion, because they both realized some things couldn’t be fixed with a kiss and an “I forgive you.” René tried to explain why he had lied – how it had been habit at first (which Lawrence understood), and then how he had gotten too close and thought that revealing such a large secret would destroy what they had. Lawrence nodded along and at the end he said, “I understand, but no more lies.”

René agreed. Then, with a smile, Lawrence prodded, “I suppose your decision to remain as a barber means you never wanted to be a chef?”

René snorted. “I’m not some sort of French caricature, no.”

Lawrence laughed and squeezed his hand. “Could’ve fooled me.”

They both remained at their jobs. They weren’t glorious, they weren’t terribly exciting, but they were steady. René enjoyed both Jefferson the older and the younger, and they handled his name switch with ease and minimal questions. Lawrence still took great pleasure in his work – not only did it keep him active, but he was being paid to drive. It was a dream come true, in a way.

They did other things besides work, of course. They’d go to the used bookstore every so often, and René imparted his opinions of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Tolstoy on his partner. Likewise, Lawrence would take him to the record store and rave about various artists there – the Bee Gees, the Eagles, and Tom Jones (who Lawrence affectionately referred to as “Jeremy’s third father”). René took up painting, choosing to work in black-and-white, and progressed to such a level that he could sell some as street art. Lawrence would occasionally compete in marksmanship competitions in central Massachusetts and southern New Hampshire, and the money he won would be enough to treat René to a fancy dinner.

Flo invited them to dinner at her house about once a fortnight, and though René’s initial response was to politely decline, Lawrence coaxed him attend, and it became a regular event. Jeremy wasn’t pleased at first, but Flo’s iron will was not something to be tested. As time passed, Jeremy seemed to enjoy the dinners more and more. Lawrence knew their relationship had healed when Jeremy casually asked René to read over his thesis.

Lawrence and René entertained Flo and Jeremy at their apartment every so often as well. They weren’t the only ones that came over, either – Ludwig visited for a week at one point, and Dell stayed with them when he was invited to MIT. Space was cramped, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. They enjoyed having company.

René was still a stuck-up bastard in many ways, and Lawrence said that with all the love in his heart. There were one-off arguments - taking out the trash (René still swore Lawrence misremembered the schedule), showering after a long day of work (he was in a truck ninety percent of the time, he couldn’t smell that bad), and what to wear while on the town (if Lawrence couldn’t wear his akubra, then René couldn’t wear his three-piece suit) - but that wasn’t unexpected. Lawrence still adored his partner. René was _his_ stuck-up bastard.

Lawrence bought a radio for the apartment. René hung up a few of his favorite paintings. They put a potted plant by the window. Jeremy started visiting on his own, which led to Jeremy forgetting various items of his there. It wasn’t that their apartment hadn’t felt like a home before, it was simply that it now _looked_ more like one. Lawrence was ecstatic.

When they both could afford the time off, they took a cross-country trip to Washington to visit Jane and Zhanna – as well as Jane Junior. It was more pleasant than when they had followed Jeremy to Boston, considering they had a map and weren’t driving on someone else’s schedule. The northern U.S. states were no less boring than the southern Midwest, and in fact much more dull than New Mexico. René loved it.

Scout graduated in the fall of 1978 with a Masters in Military History, but his commencement ceremony was in May of ‘79 with the other graduates. René, Lawrence, and Flo all sat next to each other. It was long, boring, a complete waste of time, and René couldn’t have felt prouder. Afterwards, he approached Jeremy with a small can of soda with a ribbon tied around the middle to signify it was a gift.

“Repayment for the gas station,” René said, handing it to his son. Jeremy looked at him quizzically, and René sighed.

“Yes, the French can be quite difficult,” he said in his high British accent. Jeremy’s eyes widened to comical proportions.

“No fucking way,” he said, mouth agape.

René rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, you are quite stupid.”

“Hey, man, uncalled for!” Jeremy protested. “I don’t remember what every weirdo in a gas station looks like!”

René rolled his eyes again, then hugged his son and told him he was proud of him.

“You know, ‘Professor Lefevre’ is much more pleasing to the ear than ‘Professor Miller,’” René said as he released him.

Jeremy made a face. “I don’t know what crazy fantasy world you’re living is, but it absolutely does not. ‘Sides,” he grinned, “If I do change it, it’s gonna be Professor _Pauling,_ got that?”

Ah, yes. The unofficial daughter-in-law. Pauling was still doing God knows what, God knows where. Neither René nor Lawrence were bothered by it. She was connected to Jeremy’s life, and he was connected to theirs, but they and Pauling had their own separate spheres. It was fine that way. It was simpler.

René and Lawrence didn’t live perfect lives, but they were happy. They were happy with their cluttered apartment, their books and art, their radio. They’d lived extraordinary, excitement-filled lives before, and even life in the city seemed calm in comparison. What they had gone through and what they currently had was special. It was a friendship and a partnership forged through phenomenal experiences. It was domesticity created in impossibility, betrayal, and forgiveness. It was love.

And in the end, it wasn’t so unusual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though this is the end of this fic, this isn't The End. Check out @east_wind's fics!! They're good stuff!!! As for me, I have a few big things planned for the future:  
> \- the first thing is a star wars fic which Woof...it's the longest thing I've ever written and we're about to start the editing process for that, so if you want to take a chance on that you should periodically check my profile  
> \- i also have another tf2 fic that i'm still writing! it's not sniper/spy, it's heavy/medic but there tends to be a lot of overlap in people who like both. i can't say a lot about it bc i'm only like an estimated quarter through it but if you like cold war stories then keep an eye out for that in the future  
> \- i've got pokemon stuff. god, do i have pokemon stuff. someday...someday  
> \- there are a few (two?) one-offs i'm working on so if you're interested in pokemon or into the spiderverse that's coming in the near future
> 
> More than anything, if you like It's Not Unusual, please leave a comment! I love the 80 kudos but imagine if each of you left a comment....imagine......  
> Thank you so much for reading It's Not Unusual!


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